Arm Wrestling
by NovelistServant
Summary: Betcha didn't know the author of the journals once proudly arm wrestled a unicorn for thirty hours, didja? A gift for siro-cyll over at tumblr. Drawing belongs to them.


Fiddleford cleared his throat, a feeble attempt to get his colleague's attention, but to no avail. He sighed and sat cross-legged on the grass, his backpack full of gear by his side. He propped up his head by his chin and on his fist, his elbow on one knee, and he watched half-bored, half-amused, as his best friend arm-wrestled a unicorn.

And no, the author did not mean to put down "harmed, wrestled and mourn", nor did the composure of this tale mean "alarmed and sworn in". No, the anomaly-researcher was truly arm-wrestling a unicorn, and had been at it for a few hours now.

It all started with a little journey to the mystic part of the forest. As girly as it sounded, these grown men were on the hunt for unicorns after they had encountered sparkly fairies and magical(?) gnomes. Stanford had used his deepest voice to summon the entrance to the land of the unicorns (the same deep voice he used to sing _Many Brave Souls Were Lost in the Deep_), and they had met a dazzling horse with make-up that posed in front of a waterfall, a fawn painting the scenery and the creature.

Her name was Celestabell, daughter of Celeste and mother of Celestabellabeth. She had beautiful purple, blue, and pink hair, and she had shining eyes and a dazzling horn, but her beauty was only skin-deep and did not penetrate her sparkly fur. She was annoying, getting on Fiddleford's nerves, but she enraged Stanford until he lost his temper, stripped off his trenchcoat and sweater, leaving on his yellow t-shirt, and he challenged her to an arm-wrestling match. This was all three hours ago, and none of the competitors looked ready to give way.

Fiddleford decided to try to grab his friend's attention another way. "Ford?"

No answer.

"Stanford?"

He blinked, but his focus did not waver.

"Stanford Pines."

"Fiddleford, please, unless your life is in danger, I really must focus." The young scientist growled, his fluffy hair shadowing his narrowed eyes. "On top of a true test of upper-body strength and testosterone, I'm now in the middle of a vision-based battle of wills."

"So… you've now gotten into a starin' contest with a unicorn." Fiddleford said plain as dry bread.

Celestabell gasped in offense and horror, her eyes started to wander ever so slowly. "It's not just a staring contest you uncultured sw… AH, HA! Nice try, Pines, but your friend's pointless and empty questions will never get me to look away and lose focus! NEVER!"

"Pointless and empty questions?!" Stanford repeated, brown eyes flashing. "That's it, you fancy, frenzy of a horse! You're going down!"

"Just try you pompous human!"

The colorful insults were thrown around until Stanford swore as bad as a sailor and caused the unicorn to nearly faint, only tightening her grip on her opponent's six-fingered hand, making him wince in pain, and the battle of wills continued.

After seven hours of arm-wrestling, Fiddleford made himself comfortable against a boulder and took a nap. After nine hours of arm-wrestling, he woke up; the sun was setting on this beautiful summer's day; the fireflies and magical plants were lighting up the enchanted forest. After ten hours of arm-wrestling, Fiddleford opened a newspaper. After eleven hours of arm-wrestling, he put down the news on paper. "Can I get ya some water?" He asked his friend.

"Please." Stanford replied, not taking his eyes off of Celestabell.

Fiddleford unscrewed the cap of the cantine of water and handed it to Stanford. He took a swing, gave the drink back to Fiddleford, and wiped his lips dry, refreshed and more determined now than ever.

After thirteen hours of arm-wrestling, Fiddleford sighed and left; it was midnight now. After fourteen hours of arm-wrestling, he came back with a paper-bag full of fast-food and fed Stanford a fry at a time to help keep up his strength; if Fiddleford was going to stick around for his friend for so long, he might as well do whatever he can to help him win. After sixteen hours of arm-wrestling, Fiddleford began to play his banjo, smiling that Stanford was too busy fighting with a unicorn to stop him from playing. After eighteen hours of arm-wrestling, Fiddleford started to rename the constellations. After nineteen hours, he got to enjoy the sunrise. After twenty-one hours, his patience was beginning to thin.

"Seriously, y'all, after a whole day y'all ain't gonna just give in?" He asked.

"No!" The two said in unison, their limbs quivering.

Fiddleford kicked the grass and asked the fawn if it wanted to play cards. After twenty-two hours of arm-wrestling, the fawn and the southerner were tied two games each of poker. After twenty-three hours of arm-wrestling, the fawn threw a tantrum, and shoved some playing cards into his mouth, making Fiddleford chase it around the gated forest. After twenty-four hours of arm-wrestling, Fiddleford plopped back on the grass to watch boringly, his cards long gone.

He then awoke with a jerk. Fiddleford took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. When he slipped his glasses back on his face, he looked at Stanford, who had heavy bags under his eyes but still somehow had a great amount of strength and energy to keep fighting; honor and self-respect _can_ get you very far. Fiddleford checked his watch. Thirty God-forsaken hours?! Lord Almighty, enough is enough!

"Stanford, for the love o' all that's holy, will ya give it a rest?!" Fiddleford questioned.

"No!" Stanford answered stubbornly. "It's not just about the victory, it's about the respect!"

"You lowlife creatures know nothing of respect!" Celestabell sneered. "Tearing down our sanctuaries, using our homes as your tools, raping our resources and taking what you want because you can!"

"_We're_ not like that!" Stanford growled. A wave of pride and a strong desire to one-up this annoying anomaly coursed through his veins, and he slammed the hoof down on the tree stump. "BOOM! HAH!" He yelled, vaguely reminding himself of his brother, but he was not going to let such poisonous memories ruin his victory.

"No!" Celestabell cried out and hid her head under her crossed hooves. "NO!"

"YES!" Stanford did a little boastful dance, swinging his hips and taping his feet. "Admit it! You _lost_! I defeated you, you… walkingonedimensionalpinkvprissysnobsterrotype!"

Fiddleford, Celestabell, and the entire courtyard full of unicorns gasped in upmost shock. All eyes were on the man who had dared let his big-Pines-family-mouth get in the way of his logic. He paled a shade and swallowed nervously.

"You _dare_ insult me in such an unlawful way?" Celestabell, enraged, trotted her hooves and snorted. "NAY! You of unpure hearts have overstayed your welcome here! Let your blood grace our floors when we split you in two!"

"Oh, geez." Fiddleford groaned.

"RUN!"

And that was how Stanford got his very firm opinion that unicorns were, for lack of a better PG word, frustrating.


End file.
